


help

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Westminster Cathedral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:10:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone requested Greg rescuing Mycroft. Do you know how difficult that is? It means you have to get Mycroft into a situation he can't get himself out of, and yet where Greg can find out he's in danger and get to him. That's not easy to engineer. But if Greg gets an uncharacteristically brief text from Mycroft, what's he going to do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	help

help

Greg’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He was expecting confirmation on a lab report, so he didn’t look at it straight away. Reaching into his jacket, he fumbled it out while he finished reading the page in front of him. His attention wasn’t really focused when he glanced down at the nearly-blank screen, and his lips pursed. Probably another pocket-text from someone on his team, he thought. 

But no.

help

He frowned, then saw the number. Mycroft. _Mycroft?_ He hit the dial button, and waited for him to pick up. There was a muffled smear of noise, as if Mycroft were holding his finger over the microphone. Greg hesitated, not sure if this were some kind of stealth call during a meeting. He decided to wait and take his cue from Mycroft. There was another fumbling sound, then a sudden yell, and someone - not Mycroft - yelled. “He needs you. You help!” and the call disconnected.

The mobile clattered on his desk. He rubbed his jaw, realizing he’d shoved his chair back as well, as if he’d dropped a snake onto his desk. He scooted forward, and grabbed at his desk phone, still staring at the mobile as he dialed by feel.

“Sherlock. Where are you?”

“Baker Street. Why?”

“Where’s your brother?”

“He’s not here.”

Greg cut him off before he could say something stupid. “I didn’t think so. Can you track his phone? Right now, tell me where he is.”

He was only slightly reassured to hear Sherlock typing in the background. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I just got a text from him. Just said ‘help.’”

“Very unlike him.”

“I know. Have you found him?”

“Just coming up... ah. Are you at the Yard?”

“What does that matter? Just tell me where he is!”

“Westminster Cathedral.”

“The cathedral? Not the Abbey? What the hell’s he doing there?”

“Something that requires your help, at a guess,” Sherlock said calmly.

“Jesus.”

“Mycroft? Possible.”

He ground his teeth, and settled for hanging up.

Outside the cathedral’s main door, Greg paused to take a deep breath. He’d used the lights, but not the siren, and he’d come alone, because, well, it was Mycroft, and God only knew what might be happening. If he needed back-up, the Yard was in sprinting distance. Better to try subtle and low-key first. And, again...Mycroft.

He set his hands on the doors and pulled, gently. It was heavy, and creaky, and oddly balanced, as all church doors were. The move didn’t seem to set off any kind of riot, so he opened the door far enough to slip inside. 

It all seemed to be quiet enough. He let his eyes adjust to the dimness. The center doors into the church were closed, but there was a swing door to his left.  Moving quietly, he made his way inside, trying to look as innocent and church-going as possible.

There were quiet voices. He walked slowly, keeping his head down, and glanced toward the altar as he passed the last pillar. There were three people standing near the front of the church, just at the front of the sanctuary. One had his back to him, and one of the others was Mycroft. He was sure Mycroft couldn’t have missed seeing him, but there was no flicker of movement, no response of any kind. He thought he heard Mycroft’s voice, very quietly, but couldn’t even be sure of that. It looked like some kind of improvised hostage thing, just going from the postures, but there was no way that was a gun.

He paused when he got to the middle of the aisle, facing a large rack of very few leaflets offering self-guided tours of the cathedral. He had a decent view through the wire frame, but would not be obvious if anyone suddenly looked in his direction. 

Which Mycroft then did. It was an obvious movement, not at all subtle - well, not from Mycroft. There were raised voices, angry, pleading, and then Mycroft’s, placating. If Mycroft had meant for him to stay stealthy, he wouldn’t have reacted. This must be intended as some kind of signal to him to come forward.

He stepped around the leaflet rack, making sure he didn’t put his hands in his pockets as he walked the length of the aisle. “Afternoon, Mycroft.” Yes, that was it - a knife, within striking distance of Mycroft, and yet not in Mycroft’s hand. How very unexpected.

“Lestrade,” Mycroft answered, nodding formally at him. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Greg said, slowing, keeping his distance, stopping close to the others so the knife man didn’t feel surrounded.

“Not my idea.” Mycroft nodded at the knife.

The man had turned and was looking at Lestrade. “Who you?”

Greg sighed internally. He had to have been homeless. No one smelled like this if they could help it. His tan checked shirt was frayed and thin, the collar half torn off under his stained blue fleece. He had a baby-blue knit cap on his head, and the knife was very long, and very sharp. It looked like a custom job, all curves and edges. It was also dirty as hell - dried blood, mud, some fluff that might even have been the down feathers from one of London’s diseased, rat-based pigeons. Behind him, lying on the floor along the front of the pews, Greg spotted Mycroft’s umbrella, which explained more than a little about the current stand-off.

“Why did you send for help?” Greg asked mildly, looking away from the knife and into the man’s eyes. There was a rim of white all the way around his irises, and with the dim light in the church and the man’s murky dark eyes, it was difficult to tell if his pupils were dilated. 

“I didn’t. _He_ did,” the man answered, jerking his knife toward Mycroft. “He sent for his wife to come and help me.”

“His wife. His _wife.”_ Greg repeated, blinking in disbelief. “He texted his wife.” Greg heard Mycroft take a breath behind him, and raised his hand quickly, waving him off. “Why his wife?”

“She can lift the curse. My wife, she cursed me. She left me for another man, and she cursed me. It’s a woman’s curse. Only another woman can lift it.”

Greg took a deep breath and thought very carefully. He glanced at Mycroft, who widened his eyes and raised his eyebrows in a silent shrug. Of course - Mycroft was wearing a ring. “Is... is this the man who stole your wife?” he asked, just to be clear.

“No, no. But he has a wife. I see his ring. Priest will not help me, but I see this man, and his ring. His wife, she will come to help him.”

“You, you’re the priest?” Greg asked, looking at the man in the Roman collar next to Mycroft, his hands opening and closing restlessly. Greg glared at the hands, caught the man’s eyes again, and shook his head slightly. “He talked to you about this curse?”

“Yes, but... it’s not real, you see? The church can’t do anything for him. I offered him a blessing, but -”

“You blessing’s not strong enough to remove the curse!” the man interrupted, with an angry laugh. “You are almost a woman, but you must lift the curse before a blessing will stick to me!”

“I’m afraid I don’t know anything about...curses,” the priest said helplessly.

Greg frowned. It would have been simple enough for the man to play along, wave some holy water and candles, say a few lines of Latin and tell him the curse was lifted, and throw in a genuine blessing as an afterthought if he were so desperate to do good. But his insistence on sticking to his own beliefs and not making any concessions for another’s had now left him and Mycroft on the wrong side of a crazy man’s knife. And Greg got to play referee. Hurrah.

“So why did you text... I mean, how do you know you texted his wife?”

“His phone, his ice contact. We text that. It will be his wife. Fancy man, fancy wife. She will come.” He nodded confidently, his smile revealing very few teeth.

“Ice contact...ohh.” Greg sighed, closing his eyes. It had been his idea, after all. Mycroft’s phone had so many non-standard safety locks on it that it was bordering on useless, but Greg had insisted. If he were hit by a bus, or a bullet, or his appendix burst, or any other of the infinite number of horrors that could strike a normal person, let alone Mycroft Holmes, Greg had wanted to make sure he was contacted. And if Mycroft were unconscious, there was one way to be sure. The only number in Mycroft’s accessible list of contacts was “In Case of Emergency,” or ICE. No other information, beyond Greg’s mobile number. Greg had done the same, with Mycroft’s number. 

So, of course. A man with a posh suit, talking to a priest in a church, wearing a wedding ring. Of course he’d have a wife as his emergency contact. Certainly not a DI from Scotland Yard. If you believed your wife had cursed you, why the hell not grab the nearest accountant-looking rich bloke and demand his wife help you out?

Greg looked up at the man again. “Did he tell her where to come?”

The man’s face fell. “What do you mean?”

“His wife. Does she know where he is? If she’s going to come and help you, does she know where to come?”

“You tell her!” the man snapped abruptly, jerking his chin at Mycroft.

“Then I’ll need my phone back,” Mycroft said, holding out his hand.

The man jumped back and thrust his knife forward again. “No! You will send lies! I will do it!”

Mycroft raised his hands and spread them innocently, making no move to argue.

Greg waited until the man had the phone in his hand, looking down at the screen, then stepped in, grabbed the knife hand and pushed it aside, and smashed his fist into his jaw.

“That was novel,” Mycroft said drily, looking down at the man as Greg stooped beside him, kicking the knife aside before rolling him and bringing out his speedcuffs. “Why did you let him go on so long?”

“He seemed like fun,” Greg said, grinning up at Mycroft. He caught sight of the priest behind him, who was clearly as shocked as any normal person might be. “Oh, relax,” Greg snapped at him. “If you’d just waved your hands around him and made some spooky noises, this never would have happened. It’ll probably turn out he’s from your homeless shelter next door. You’d better come to terms with life in the big city, Father, or you’ll end up getting more poor idiots like this arrested when all he needed was a bit of comfort.”

“It’s not my job to encourage the worship of false gods,” the priest told him.

“I don’t know what your job is, frankly, and right now I don’t much care, because you failed to do it.” Greg pulled the man up, who was still whimpering a bit. “Come on, Charlie. I can at least get you cleaned up, maybe get you a sandwich at the station. No harm done.”

Mycroft bent down and caught up his umbrella and mobile. “Enjoyable as it’s been, I’m late for a meeting.”

“Excuse me, but, well, thank you,” the priest said, making Greg and Mycroft look back at him. “I mean, I assume you’re police,” he added, gesturing at the handcuffs. “But how did you happen to come in just now?”

“What? Oh, sorry. DI Lestrade. I’m his wife,” he added, jerking his head at Mycroft.

 


End file.
